


Katherine

by kronette



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Episode: s05e20 Archangel, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-29
Updated: 2012-12-29
Packaged: 2017-11-22 20:00:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/613707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kronette/pseuds/kronette
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is set between Archangel and Armageddon. There was a challenge issued on a list to write Methos' temptation, so here is my offer.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Katherine

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to my beta readers Dianne, Olympia, Sharon, Martha and especially Debbi. Always nice to know I haven't lost my touch. Originally posted in 1998 under my real name (I was young and stupid).

Methos had a decision to make. Leave and save his own head, or stay and try to help Joe and MacLeod learn more about this Ahriman. He still couldn't quite believe that Richie was dead by MacLeod's hand. MacLeod had loved Richie like a son. If the Highlander was capable of killing his _son_ , who would he go after next?  
  
Methos held no illusions. A 5,000 year-old Quickening sounded good to _him_ ... he made a note to check flights to South America in the morning.  
  
He rose from the couch and headed toward the bathroom. He stopped as he thought he heard a noise. He didn't hear it again, so he continued into the bathroom and stripped off his clothes. As he was reaching for the shower dial, he _knew_ he heard something -- a child's cry. He turned on the hot water for the shower -- ignoring how his hand shook.  
  
///1712, Ireland///  
  
"Good day, fair lady," Methos, or rather, Doctor Benjamin Adams as he was known by at this time, called as he approached the small cottage where a plump woman was drawing water from a well. She straightened and turned at his voice.  
  
"Good morning to you, sir. A nice day to be traveling." Indeed the sun was out and the roads had been dry for a few weeks now. The weather had been ideal for traveling, and Methos had been doing a lot of it.  
  
"Yes, it is." Methos stepped closer and noted that the woman wasn't plump; she was pregnant. His heart caught in his throat and he swallowed with difficulty. He offered her a shaky smile. "I wanted to ask if you might put me up for the night. Is your husband in the fields?"  
  
"My husband is dead," the woman informed him without so much as a blink. "But if you're looking for a place to stay, there's an inn down the road a spell."  
  
Methos stepped even closer, the doctor in him worried about her. "I am a doctor," he said softly. "You should not be tending the fields by yourself."  
  
The woman laughed. "Who said I'm by myself? You presume a lot for a stranger to these parts." Her stare turned wary, and he cursed himself for his quick mouth.  
  
"Forgive me. I was only concerned about the child. How long...?" he asked with raised brows.  
  
The woman rubbed gently on her belly, a smile softening her features. "The midwife says it will be many weeks still."  
  
"I would say sooner than that," he mused. "You are carrying low. I would say within a week or two."  
  
She chuckled softly. "A week? But that is not possible, sir. The child is not due for a month, possibly more."  
  
Methos shook his head. "No, the child will be born in a week or two," he related matter-of-factly.  
  
Her eyes widened in fear, and her voice was hoarse as she whispered, "But the midwife said the child was not ready."  
  
He berated himself for speaking so abruptly. "Forgive me. I did not mean to frighten you. I have seen this before, many times. Often the child is born perfectly healthy."  
  
"And the other times?" the woman demanded quickly.  
  
His eyes widened in shock. He didn't realize how he sounded. "I am sorry! I did not mean . . . I am truly sorry. I will take my leave of you. Please, forgive me," he rasped as he turned and walked quickly down the road. Tears blurred his vision, but it was an easy path to follow. He still felt the loss of his last child -- dead now over three hundred years -- as fresh and painful as the day he buried her. Back then, he did not have the skills necessary to save his wife's child -- or his wife. It mattered not that Annabelle carried another man's child; he was the one to suggest it. Methos knew how much she wanted children, but it was impossible for him to grant her that wish. They talked about it, argued about it, and he finally convinced her that he would not shun her if she lay with another man.  
  
He knew the day had come when they invited a stranger into their home; a weary traveler who had taken a liking to her the instant he entered their home. Methos could not have blamed him for his attentions, either. Annabelle was truly a beautiful creature, unaware of her beauty or the affect she had on men. Methos was very lucky to have won her heart, and he cherished every moment with her.  
  
The visitor stayed with them a week. Methos still remembered Annabelle's gentle kiss on the back of his neck as she slipped from their bed and scurried out to the visitor's room. He imagined he could hear the soft moans coming from their guest room. The visitor's hands roaming over her breasts, his mouth covering hers. Her legs wrapped around him as she arched her back and cried out her satisfaction . . . he buried his head under the pillow and wished the morn to hurry.  
  
He awoke the next day to the smell of breakfast cooking. The visitor was gone. Anabelle's eyes were filled with tears as she placed his plate in front of him. "Husband," she whispered on a breath.  
  
He pulled her to his lap and held her tightly. "Wife," he answered huskily. Her gentle fingers threaded through his hair, and he lay his head against her breast, listening to her heartbeat. Eight months later, he rested his head against her belly, listening to their child's heartbeat. When he raised his head, his eyes were full of wonder. "Our child," he rasped.  
  
"Our child," Annabelle confirmed, her own eyes sparkling with tears.  
  
~~~~  
  
"My child," Methos whispered as the now lukewarm water pounded his back. He blinked the tears from his eyes and focused on where he was. His arms were wrapped tightly around his body, and his cheeks were cold from the drying tears. Turning off the water, he grabbed a towel and quickly dried himself. He pulled on a pair of boxers and a t-shirt, then wandered into the living room.  
  
This _thing_ MacLeod had seen was putting too much of a strain on his friends. Too much of a strain on _him_. He went to the refrigerator, pulled out a beer, then replaced it unopened. He sighed and shut the refrigerator door. Nothing appealed to him. Between MacLeod's hallucinations and his own memories, Methos had too much think about.  
  
"You always did think too much, brother." The ancient taunt flittered around his head and he whirled around, his heart pounding in his chest. But there was no one in his apartment.  
  
"You need sleep, old man," Methos mumbled to himself. Deciding to take a nap, he stretched out on the couch. The second he closed his eyes, the taunting voice returned.  
  
"Mortals are such fragile creatures. So far beneath us. What do you see in them, brother? What do they offer you that I cannot?" Ghost hands trailed over his body, and Methos rolled off the couch in his haste to get away from them.  
  
"Who are you? What do you want?" he demanded as he scrambled for his broadsword. He gripped the hilt so hard his knuckles turned white.  
  
"Have you forgotten me already?"  
  
The voice came from directly behind him this time, and without thinking, he swung his sword around at a deadly level for anyone -- but especially for Immortals. His sword encountered nothing, and he was unable to stop the swing. His balance was upset and he stumbled back, right up against someone's chest. His wrist was seized by a well-known hand and his sword clattered to the floor in surprise. A familiar sword came into his line of vision, then disappeared under his chin. When the cold steel touched his throat, he shivered.  
  
"Did you really think you could _kill me_?" the former Leader of the Horsemen hissed menacingly in his ear. "You should know better than that."  
  
"Kronos . . ." Methos gasped, unable to comprehend that the Immortal could actually be in his apartment. His voice was stronger as he stated, "Kronos, you are dead."  
  
"Am I?" The blade moved a fraction, just enough to cut into the skin of Methos' neck. He arched away from the sword, but it followed his every move. His back was now plastered up against ancient armor, and it cut through his thin shirt and into his skin. "Does all this feel real to you?"  
  
Methos hissed as Kronos -- or whoever it was -- shifted him across their chest, the small plates on the armor cutting deeply into his skin. He felt blood soaking his shirt and running down his back. "Yes," he was unable to deny. "It feels real."  
  
He was suddenly released and he immediately dove for his sword. When he rolled over to point it at Kronos, there was no one there. He blinked and did a quick survey of his apartment. Nothing looked to be touched and there was no indication that anyone else had been there but him. He passed by a mirror, then did a double-take. He turned his back to the mirror and looked over his shoulder . . . his shirt was whole and clean. No blood soaked it. He stripped it off quickly and checked his back. Not one mark. His sword slipped to the floor from his nerveless fingers. It couldn't be. He had felt the warm blood tickle along his spine, had felt the rough iron digging into his flesh.  
  
An ancient laugh whispered past his ear, and he shouted hysterically, "WHAT DO YOU WANT WITH ME?"  
  
"Your acceptance," came the simple reply.  
  
Methos dropped to his knees and closed his eyes, willing all the images away. Kronos wasn't real. Kronos was dead - he had seen the beheaded body himself. He had taken Kronos' prize sword and buried it with the Horseman. _He was dead!_  
  
Ahriman wasn't real. Demons didn't exist. He had been alive for five thousand years and had never seen a demon . . . it couldn't exist! If whatever it was wanted acceptance, it wouldn't get it from him. "Go to hell," he growled.  
  
The voice was teasing this time. "Without you? Never, brother. We share . . . "  
  
The oath was not completed by the ghost voice, but Methos finished it hoarsely. "Everything."  
  
The teasing was gone. In its place was pure hatred. "Including death."  
  
Methos didn't dare sleep that night. He sat back against the wall opposite the door with his sword in his grasp and tried desperately not to think.  
  
~~~~  
  
The birth was going very badly, just as he feared. He threw down his medical bag and stripped off his greatcoat. "I am here to help you," he told the woman he had met only a week ago. He had stayed at the inn, worried about her impending labor. Now he saw his fears were founded, and it tore at his heart. "Do you remember me?" he asked the nearly hysterical woman.  
  
"My baby!" she shrieked as she held up her bloody hands. "Save my baby!"  
  
Methos grabbed her hands and held them at her sides. "Quiet!" he yelled at her. "My name is Benjamin. I am a doctor. I will do everything I can to save your baby."  
  
She focused on his voice and stopped struggling. He continued talking to her as he rolled up his sleeves. "We met last week. You were in the yard, drawing water. Do you remember me?"  
  
"Yes," she answered, then howled as a contraction pulled at her body. He held her shoulders back as she tried to curl up.  
  
"Do not push! Not until I give you leave," he ordered her.  
  
There was more blood than there should be. Something was terribly wrong, and he had no one to help him. He walked quickly into the kitchen and grabbed a knife, a glass and a bottle of whiskey. He returned to her side just as she screamed in pain again. He caught one of her wildly flailing hands in his, and her grip was fierce. Her nails drew blood and he closed his eyes against his own pain, hoping it lessened some of her own. She finally released his hand as the contraction passed, and he flexed his fingers. He quickly poured whiskey into the glass and helped her sit up. "Drink."  
  
She coughed at the strong liquor but drained the glass. "Good. Now, I need to see if the baby's head is showing yet. Will you let me?"  
  
"Save my baby," the woman pleaded.  
  
He nodded and pushed her sweat-soaked hair off her forehead. "We will save your baby." As he examined her, he wished he had not made that promise. The baby's feet were coming out first. He had delivered babies in this position before, but always in a hospital and never without an assistant. He lowered his head and gathered his strength. "What is your name?" Ridiculous as it sounded, it got her mind off the impending contraction. He already knew her name; he had asked after her every day that he stayed at the inn.  
  
"Sofia."  
  
"Sofia. I'm going to have you push, and you must push as hard as you can, but not until I tell you to. The baby is coming out feet first. Do not worry. I have seen many children through births like this before. Your baby will be fine," he assured her, keeping his voice low. He needed her as calm as possible, though he knew damn well it was nigh impossible.  
  
She nodded and braced her arms behind her. When her body convulsed, he shouted, "Push!"  
  
Her scream nearly broke his eardrums. He could see the feet, but was deathly afraid the shoulders would get caught. Or worse, that the cord had wrapped around the baby's head. They didn't have any more time. "Push!" he ordered.  
  
"I can't!" Sofia cried as she fell back, exhausted. "I can't."  
  
He gathered all his strength and commanded, "If you want this child to live, you will push!" Some days, not very many in his long life, was he thankful that he had been a Horseman and a terror. Dealing with an exhausted and frightened mother-to-be was one of those times. Unable to resist his order, she pushed herself up wearily. She braced her arms again and screamed until her voice was hoarse.  
  
"Push!" he commanded the mother. Then he commanded the child, "Come on, damn it, help me here!"  
  
The feet came easily through the canal, and tears blurred his vision. The shoulders came after a brief struggle. "Only a bit more . . . come on, come on . . . there you are," Methos whispered as the child slipped into his arms. Tears rolled down his cheeks as he held the child in his hands. The sudden cry coming from such a tiny person startled Methos . . .  
  
And the Methos of today wiped the tears from his face as he swore he heard the echo of that baby in his apartment.  
  
"And that wasn't even your child," Annabelle's voice called to him.  
  
He gasped and raised his head from where it rested against the wall. "Annabelle?" he whispered increduously.  
  
She stood before him, wearing the dress he had bought for her on one of his trips to Cheshire. "Hello, husband."  
  
"Annabelle," he repeated, his entire body numb. His eyes dropped to her arms, where she held a small bundle. No, it couldn't be. "Anna . . .?"  
  
"She is so precious," she cooed as she waggled a finger at the bundle. A child's soft cry rose from the blankets.  
  
Methos rose shakily to his feet and took awkward steps toward his wife. He reached out a trembling hand and pulled back the blanket. Bright blue eyes met his, and he choked back a sob. "Anna," he whispered as his finger traced the tiny face now smiling up at him.  
  
"Yes, husband?" his wife gazed up at him trustingly.  
  
He hesitated twice before the words finally braved past his lips. "Is this . . .?"  
  
"Katherine," Annabelle confirmed softly.  
  
Methos suddenly had trouble breathing. His eyes filled with tears, and a few slipped down his cheeks. "Katherine," he murmured as he once again reached out, this time to cup her small head with his hand. She nearly disappeared under it. He laughed delightedly. "She's so tiny!"  
  
"That is because she never grew up."  
  
The absolute coldness in Annabelle's voice snapped Methos' head up. Her words knocked the breath from him. "I --"  
  
"Let her die," Annabelle accused him quietly. She cuddled the baby closer to her breast, out of his reach.  
  
It felt like a slap across his face. An ache began in his heart and threatened to overwhelm him. So much blood . . . there had been so much blood . . . Annebelle's screams echoed in his head . . . "I tried . . . I didn't know . . . I didn't know how . . ." he stammered.  
  
"You were the Immortal one! You had lived for centuries!" she accused him angrily. "Why couldn't you save my baby?"  
  
" _Our_ baby! Katherine was my child too!" he choked out.  
  
"No, she was not. She was a bastard child that you permitted to be born," Annabelle informed him. "And she was taken from me because of it."  
  
"She was as much mine as if it had been my seed, and you know it!" Methos cried as more tears fell from his eyes. "I loved her!"  
  
"Then why couldn't you save her?" Annabelle crushed the child against her breast, and she let out a sound of protest, drawing Methos' attention.  
  
His eyes took in mother and child -- his child, and his defenses crumbled. "I wanted to! I tried! I didn't know!" he wailed as his knees threatened to give out. "Don't you think I wanted to save her?"  
  
"What about me?" Annabelle raged. "Was I worth saving?"  
  
More tears fell from his eyes as he looked into his wife's angry gaze. His voice was filled with awe as he whispered, "I adored you, Annabelle. I loved you like . . ."  
  
"Like none of your other wives," she spat. "What number was I? Twenty? Thirty?"  
  
"Don't do this," he pleaded desperately. "Anna, please, you have to understand . . ."  
  
"Understand what? That my husband watched while I bled to death? That he lives still while I am dead? That my child is dead? Your curse killed us!"  
  
He recoiled from her, his back hitting the wall. He shook his head in disbelief, tears still falling. "No. No, please don't say that, Anna. I loved you . . ."  
  
"I despise you," she stated coldly as her eyes glowed a deep red. "I curse the day I met you, and every night thereafter that I lay with you."  
  
"No! Anna!" he begged as he sank to the floor. "I love you! I love her."  
  
"You don't deserve to love her," Annabelle hissed before she and Katherine disappeared in a puff of smoke.  
  
"ANNA!" Methos yelled brokenly, but she had already gone. "Don't take her, Anna. Please," he whispered to his empty apartment. "My Katherine," he murmured as he wrapped his arms around his body. He started rocking back and forth, muttering to himself.  
  
It wasn't real, he told himself. It had to be a trick of Ahriman. He had seen Annabelle's red eyes. She was not real. But if this was just a trick . . . why did it feel so real? He could still smell the scent of Anna's hair and hear the soft noises made by Katherine.  
  
A baby's sudden cry brought his head up. He cocked his head and listened intently, but didn't hear anything else. Another trick of Ahriman. He closed his eyes.  
  
"Brother."  
  
Methos didn't have to open his eyes to know that Kronos knelt beside him. "Yes."  
  
"You wish for a child. The one thing you can not have no matter how long you survive - a child of your own flesh and blood." The voice moved closer, until the breath whispered past Methos' ear. "I can make it possible."  
  
"No," Methos rasped. He kept his eyes tightly closed against Kronos, afraid that if he did open them, he would give in.  
  
"Knowing that your seed -- your life force, helped make a child. A little boy, perhaps? With your keen intellect and killer smile?" The voice shifted to his other ear. "Or, perhaps, a little girl."  
  
Methos couldn't stop the whimper that escaped and tore at his heart.  
  
The voice was gleeful now. "Yes, a sweet little girl that would have your sparkling eyes and wicked sense of humor," the voice recounted softly. "She would wrap her arms around your neck and you would swing her around. Her laughter would fill your days. She would sleep wrapped in your arms, safe and warm. That is what you want, isn't it, Methos?"  
  
"Yes," he moaned, finally opening his eyes and staring directly into Kronos'. "Yes," he breathed.  
  
A happy, gurgling sound emanated from the bed, and Methos' head turned toward it, but his eyes remained locked on Kronos'.  
  
"She is yours, brother." A thousand births that Methos had witnessed flashed through his mind . . . all the children he had held . . . none of them his. How many of his wives children had he raised as his own, them never knowing he wasn't their father? "She is your flesh and blood, brother," Kronos assured him. "And she needs you."  
  
Kronos vanished, leaving Methos staring up at his bed. The insistent cry grew in strength until it was impossible for Methos to stay on the floor. He braced himself against the wall as he stood. He felt like a newborn himself; his legs were shaking beneath him. His breath caught as he saw the vision before him. The little girl was waving her arms and crying, demanding attention - or, belatedly he thought, food. Food? He raced into the kitchen and stopped short at the island. He stared in astonishment at the dozen bottles resting in neat rows on the counter. The baby's crying had his hand automatically wrapping around one small bottle and he returned to the bed.  
  
"Shhhh," he murmured as he carefully picked her up. She quieted for just a brief moment, and as she looked up at him, he could see the brilliant blue of her eyes. His tears wet her chest, and he tilted his head back to try to stop their flow. He shook the bottle gently, then held it as she greedily sucked it. Within minutes the bottle was empty and the little girl was asleep, wrapped protectively in his arms.  
  
He rested against the headboard and just looked at her. She had a little dark hair at the very top of her head. Her cheeks were just a bit chubby, but her arms and legs were long. He tucked his forefinger into her little hand, and her fingers gripped it with surprising strength. She sighed in her sleep, and Methos ducked his head and kissed her forehead. "Oh, my Katherine," he murmured as he held her tight against his chest.  
  
~~~~~  
  
"Hush, honey, you're okay," Methos murmured as he paced back and forth with Katherine in his arms. She woke up screaming at one a.m. and he was trying to quiet her down.  
  
"What's the matter, sweetheart?" he whispered as he held her close. He slid his finger into her mouth and felt her gums. There was the problem; her tooth had almost broken through and it was probably bothering her. Methos knew it bothered _him_ when she gnawed on his bare shoulder, but he didn't complain. He never complained. Nothing she did had even raised his temper. Not even when she crawled into the laundry basket and dragged his clean clothes across the bedroom floor. He just laughed as she tried to pull one of his socks over her head.  
  
Her hand clutched at his hair and he winced, but didn't remove her hand. He could sacrifice a few hairs if it made her feel safe. He shifted her a bit lower on his chest, until her ear rested above his heart. Two minutes later, she was asleep again. "There you go," Methos whispered as he put her down in her crib. He cupped her head in his hand, almost too big for it now. He pulled the blanket over her, then returned to his own bed.  
  
As he slipped under the covers, he felt a presence behind him.  
  
"Brother, it has been a long time."  
  
Methos' eyes widened in terror. "Kronos. Where have you been these last few days?" he asked as calmly as he could.  
  
The voice behind him chuckled. "Days? I think your are mistaken, my brother. It has been almost eight months."  
  
At that, Methos rolled over and stared at Kronos. "It can't have been. Katherine . . ."  
  
Kronos smiled and waved to the crib. "Is crawling. When I gave her to you, she could barely open her eyes. Do you think that happens overnight?"  
  
"No. It's only been . . ." Methos got up and searched his apartment, finally finding a relatively new newspaper. He hadn't had time to bother reading; he was so wrapped up in Katherine's care. As he read the date, his arms shook.  
  
"Eight months," Kronos confirmed as he sat down opposite of Methos. "And now I've come for payment."  
  
Methos slowly raised his eyes to Kronos, trying desperately to hide his fear. "What?"  
  
"For Katherine," Kronos replied matter-of-factly. "You didn't think I would just _give_ her to you, did you?"  
  
Methos backed up into the bedroom. "But she's mine. You said she was mine!" He hated the desperation he could hear in his own voice.  
  
Kronos stood and followed him. "I said she was your flesh and blood. I never said she was _yours_."  
  
"No," Methos whispered, horrified.  
  
"Have you heard from MacLeod lately? Joe? Amanda? _Anyone_?"  
  
The abrupt change in topics did little to settle Methos' nerves. Why bring them up now? Why mention that he wanted to take Katherine away from him? What game was Ahriman playing? "No," he answered truthfully.  
  
Kronos' eyes glowed red as he asked, "Ever wonder why?"  
  
He wouldn't give in. He would _not_ let Ahriman get to him. He called upon five thousand years of intimidation. "No," Methos growled menacingly. "What they do is their business."  
  
"But Joe needs you," Kronos sing-songed back at him.  
  
"Why does he need me?" A horrible thought struck Methos, and he took a step forward as he hissed, "What did you do to him?"  
  
"Nothing," Kronos replied with a shrug. "I never touched him. I give you my word."  
  
"Like that's worth anything." He braved the question, knowing instinctively he would hate the answer. "What do you want?"  
  
"I want you to help your friends. MacLeod is back in town, you know." Methos kept his emotions carefully under control. He would not let this thing know how much this was affecting him. But it continued. "Did you know he met Joe at Richie's grave? What a touching reunion. You know poor Joe had to bury Richie by himself because you were too cowardly to stay."  
  
"Protecting my head isn't cowardly," he fired back at it.  
  
"Running out on your friends is. MacLeod needed you. Joe needed you," Kronos whispered. "They needed your guidance and your wisdom. They needed your strength. And where were you? Hiding out in this apartment for the past eight months."  
  
Methos tried to regulate his breathing, but it was impossible. His emotions were too close to the surface. His voice cracked as he admitted, "I had to think of myself. MacLeod lost it. Survival is all that matters."  
  
"Is it?"  
  
Katherine's babbling was suddenly the loudest sound in the room. "You touch one hair on her head . . ." Methos threatened.  
  
Kronos vanished before his eyes, only to re-appear next to Katherine's crib.  
  
Methos froze, his eyes locked on Kronos as he rubbed at Katherine's head. "Which is more important, your friends or your own flesh and blood?"  
  
"Why should I have to make a choice?" Methos' voice came out a strangled whisper.  
  
"Because MacLeod is about to enter the final battle with me. He's going to die," Kronos answered simply. He smiled, a thoroughly unpleasant gesture. "What do you suppose will happen to Joe then? Reassigned to a desk job? Or will he leave the Watchers for good?"  
  
All of Methos' emotional control snapped. "MacLeod is better than you! He's the best of all of us!" he cried as he balled his fist. He didn't dare take a step toward it, for fear of retribution on his daughter.  
  
"But is he good enough?" Time stopped for Methos as Kronos lifted Katherine into his arms. He chucked her under the chin, and she smiled up at him. Kronos turned his head to stare at Methos, allowing the redness to shine once more. "What is his life worth to you?"  
  
Tears slipped from Methos eyes. "He's too important to lose." He repeated the phrase from what seemed like ages ago in a monotone. His entire existence narrowed to the thing holding Katherine. She was playing with one of the metal plates sewn to Kronos' armor. He remembered those very plates cutting into the flesh on his back; felt the blood trickle down his spine. Their image wavered as more tears filled his eyes. He willed her to leave Kronos alone. To fall asleep and keep her hands to herself. ANYTHING!  
  
"You can't have both," Kronos informed him pleasantly as he made clucking noises at his daughter.  
  
Methos flinched as she squealed in delight and pulled his hair. "Please," he groaned harshly, whether to Kronos or Katherine, he could not say.  
  
Kronos' voice lost its pleasantness. It was absolutely heartless as he announced, "You have a choice to make. The battle begins as soon as you decide."  
  
Methos' gaze darted from Kronos' face to Katherine's, anguish tearing at his heart. "I won't!"  
  
"Then MacLeod dies!" Kronos shouted, upsetting Katherine. She started to cry softly.  
  
Methos took one step toward Kronos; toward his daughter, and froze again. Kronos rocked her gently and she quieted down. His daughter in Kronos' arms. MacLeod battling with Kronos. Both too young to know any better. Both important to him. Kronos and Katherine. Kronos and MacLeod. The images were forever burned into his mind, and he swore to never forgive himself for what he was about to do. He closed his eyes and screamed hoarsely, "I won't sacrifice him to you!"  
  
The words hung in the air between them. Methos finally opened his eyes, expecting his apartment to be destroyed. Instead, Kronos calmly put Katherine back in her crib and walked over to Methos. "Is that your decision then?"  
  
Methos looked at his daughter . . . his Katherine . . . his life . . . "Yes," he choked out.  
  
"So be it." Kronos vanished, leaving Methos standing in his bedroom.  
  
Katherine stood up in her crib, holding onto the side as she bounced. Methos fought with every fiber of his being not to go to her, pick her up, and hold her until . . . he turned his back to her, just as she started to babble.  
  
"Da-da-da-da-da-da," echoed around the apartment.  
  
Her first words. Covering his mouth with his hand, Methos collapsed onto his bed, keeping his back to the crib.  
  
"Da-da-da-da-da-da," she continued as tears streamed down his face. He struggled to get a breath, but his body refused to obey him. He tried to stop his tears, to no avail.  
  
"Da-da-da-d-" the babbling abruptly stopped. A low, keening wail caught in Methos' throat as he curled into a ball in the middle of his bed.  
  
MacLeod had won.  
  
~~~~~~  
  
Duncan MacLeod slowly rose from his knees in Darius' church. He was exhausted, but a sense of calmness he hadn't felt in years settled over him. Father Beaufort shuffled in to see how he was, but MacLeod waved him off. He just wanted to be left alone. Even if the fight hadn't been a physical one, his body was drained as if he had fought one.  
  
The doors opened behind him, reminding him that this was still a church. He stood and walked to the entrance, where the woman was just coming in.  
  
"Good day," she remarked to him.  
  
"Good day," he replied. He smiled down at the tiny bundle she held in her arms. "Your daughter?" he asked.  
  
The woman smiled. "Yes."  
  
"May I?" Nodding, she allowed MacLeod to tickle the child's chin. She opened her brilliant blue eyes at him and gurgled. "She's beautiful. Just like her mother."  
  
The woman blushed and started to protest. "Mister . . ."  
  
"MacLeod. Duncan MacLeod. And it was just a compliment; nothing more, nothing less."  
  
"Georgine Mallieu." She hefted her little bundle a bit higher against her chest. "And this is Katherine."  
  
"Hello, Georgine," he said graciously, taking her hand and kissing it. "And hello to you, Katherine," he said as he offered her his finger. She grasped it in a near-death grip, and he blinked in surprise. "She's strong."  
  
"Yes," her mother sighed. "Since the day she was born." They both tried to get Katherine to release MacLeod's finger, but she refused with a cry.  
  
"Hush," MacLeod whispered. "May I?" He held out his other hand, and Georgine passed her child into his arms. She immediately quieted down.  
  
"You have the magic touch, Mr. MacLeod," Georgine smiled at his wonder.  
  
"I guess I do." The little girl sighed and snuggled closer, and within minutes was fast asleep. Her grip on his finger didn't let up, but together, he and Georgine managed to separate them.  
  
"I don't want to take up any more of your time," MacLeod apologized as he took a step back from mother and child. "I really should be going." He couldn't explain it, but holding that little girl . . .he felt a profound sadness press onto his soul. He hadn't ever been regretful that he hadn't adopted a child, but something tugged at him . . . an old regret . . . an ancient hurt...  
  
With sudden understanding, he whispered, "Methos."  
  
The End 


End file.
